


The Long Road to Happiness

by Persiflage



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Angst, Child Actors, Doctor Who References, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Female Friendship, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Rough Sex, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Marital Rape, Non-Graphic Violence, Prompt Fic, Slow Bern, Slow Build, Unhappy marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24510994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/pseuds/Persiflage
Summary: Alternate Universe: Bernie Wolfe and Serena Campbell were child actors together.
Relationships: Marcus Dunn/Bernie Wolfe, Serena Campbell/Bernie Wolfe
Comments: 8
Kudos: 67





	The Long Road to Happiness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sevtacular](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevtacular/gifts).



> Someone posted [a list of Celebrity AU prompts](https://pers-books.tumblr.com/post/619551376041721856/celebrity-au-ideas) and, as per bloody usual, my Bitch Muse leapt on more than one of the prompts. And when Sev reblogged it, she said (of the prompt _“we were both child stars on the same show, your career skyrocketed and mine went nowhere, now 20 years later you’re on my doorstep at 3 a.m.” au_ ):
> 
>  _#or the child stars one where Bernie married big actor or director Marcus to hide #and ended up having a successful career but has suffered and now filed for divorce #then ran away to serena to try and hide from the inevitable press clamour for her_.
> 
> The Muse opted for this.
> 
>  **Please, please, PLEASE** take note of the tags on this: Bernie's marriage to Marcus Dunn is deeply unhappy and is marred by domestic violence (not graphic or life-threatening, but still violence). There's also a brief, non-detailed mention of marital rape. Please don't read if these things will trigger you.

“You’re joking.”

Bernie is shaking, internally, as she stares defiantly at her husband of only three months. “I’m not.”

“You’re seriously considering going on tour across Europe for nine months when we’ve barely been married five minutes? You can’t go.”

Bernie straightens up, looking down at where Marcus Dunn, the young director who’s going places by all accounts, sits on their sofa. “I can go. I will go. I’ve already signed the contract and I won’t let you ruin my reputation or my career by stopping me.” She swallows. “Come on, Marcus, you know how big an opportunity this is, and how much it’d mean to my career to go. It’s Shakespeare and Chekhov with the British Council.”

Her husband shakes his head, but in resignation, not denial. “Fine. Go. Just don’t expect me to come and see you. I’ll be too busy with _my_ career to waste time on yours.”

Bernie swallows again, feeling tears prickle at the corners of her eyes at his dismissive tone, but she doesn’t say anything, she just turns on her heel and walks out of the study, as Marcus has designated the spare bedroom, and into their shared bedroom where she begins packing. She’s only planning on taking the bare minimum of clothing since she knows she’ll be spending much of her time in dress rehearsals or performing. Anything she doesn’t have but needs she can buy. She sorts out the books she wants to take with her: copies of the plays she’ll be performing in, particularly her beloved _Twelfth Night_ , plus some more light-hearted books. She also takes the leather bound journal that her friend Serena sent for her birthday a few weeks ago – she thinks she’d like keep a diary, a travelogue of sorts, for the first time ever. She can’t help caressing the cover of the journal and smiling fondly at the thought of Serena. They’d been cast together three times as child actors, once on stage and twice in long running radio serials, and she still tends to think of her as her best friend, although they see each other less often than Bernie would like. 

She sits on the corner of the bed, the journal in her lap, and thinks about how wonderful Serena had looked at her wedding six months ago: there really had been a glow about her, which had lit up not just her face, but her entire being. She’d been resplendent in an ivory dress with a long train and acres of lace, and Bernie feels a warmth suffusing her body at the memory of how utterly gorgeous she’d looked. Serena has developed into a curvaceous woman in the last few years, and Bernie – who still feels like a newborn colt, gangly and awkward – couldn’t help wanting to slide her hands over her friend’s curves, although she was aware that such thoughts were probably not appropriate on the wedding day of your best friend, and even less so when you’re engaged and attending the wedding with your fiancé. 

She tries not to think about all the occasions in the last few years when she’s had to fight the urge to kiss Serena; when her body has ached with the desire to hold Serena close and touch her. She shudders with suppressed desire and gets to her feet again to finish her packing. Then she slips her passport into her wallet and pushes that into the pocket of her jeans. 

She checks in the mirror to make sure that her make up and hair are acceptable and feels a secret thrill that she’s daring to wear the flared, pale blue jeans and denim shirt over a white vest. She’s fairly sure Marcus wouldn’t approve of her attire – it doesn’t scream demure housewife, which is exactly why Bernie likes it. She’d told him, when he proposed, that she wasn’t going to give up her acting career to be a housewife and mother, and she’d known he hadn’t taken her remarks seriously. He tends to dismiss her as being too young to know her own mind, despite the fact that he’s only three years older than her, and she is definitely more mature than many twenty-two year olds. As a child actor she’d grown up fast and unlike many child actors she’d taken her job seriously. She’s known for years that acting is in her blood and she’s never wanted to do anything else.

It still saddens her that Serena had given up on acting to first complete a Bachelor of Business Administration degree, then to get married; Serena had never made any secret of the fact that she longs for children and that she’d set her heart on marriage and children when she was in her late teens. Bernie hadn’t intended to get married at all – but Marcus, whom she’d considered a friend who was a boy, rather than her boyfriend, had taken it into his head to propose, in front of her parents, too, so she’d felt obliged to say yes even though she wasn’t really interested in becoming his wife. In fact, she’s never been interested in boys at all, but knowing that everyone would label her a pervert if she ever admitted that she was much more interested in kissing girls, she’s kept that part of herself a secret. Something she’d begun to regret as soon as she and Marcus were married, and she found herself obliged to have sexual intercourse with him. He’s often rough with her, pinning her body down with his own so that he can thrust hard and deep into her wanting, she knows, to impregnate her so that she’ll be forced to put aside her career to care for and bring up his child. Which is another reason for her to be glad that she’s going to be away for so long.

She picks up her duffle bag, then makes her way downstairs and pulls on her leather jacket before shouldering her bag. She doesn’t bother to tell Marcus that she’s going nor to say goodbye to him – she has no desire to have a row with him. Instead she heads to the bus stop and catches the bus to the railway station where she boards a train heading for London. 

**Three years later.**

“Darling, can I talk to you?”

Bernie manages to suppress a flinch of dismay at her mother’s words and smoothes her face into the friendliest expression she can manage before turning to look at her. “What is it, Mother?” she asks as she turns back at the foot of the stairs. 

She and Marcus are spending Christmas Eve and part of Christmas Day with her parents, then they’ll be going to his parents for the rest of Christmas Day and Boxing Day, and she longs to be anywhere but in their vicinity.

“Come into the parlour.” 

Bernie heaves a silent sigh as her mother turns away and heads into the parlour, then follows, trying not to drag her feet.

“Is everything alright?” Constance Wolfe asks.

Bernie gives her a confused look. “What makes you think it isn’t?”

“Well, you know.” She gestures vaguely at Bernie, which she finds unenlightening. Her mother tuts, then says in a petulant tone, “I thought I would be a grandmother by now. Have you seen a doctor? It’s not–” She lowers her voice. “It’s not Marcus, is it?”

“As far as I know we’re both capable of producing a child, Mother,” Bernie says, hoping her mother cannot tell how embarrassing this conversation is.

“So why haven’t you had a child yet? You’ve been married for three years.”

As if Bernie didn’t know. Their anniversary had been a few weeks ago, but there’d been no party, no celebratory dinner, and she’d left opening the anniversary gifts from their friends and family until the following day. Marcus, in fact, had spent the night in London at a gala event and stayed overnight at his club, while Bernie had spent the night home alone, enjoying the rare peace and quiet. She’d eaten fish and chips from the local chippie, drunk a couple of beers, then gone to bed thinking about her next role: she’ll be playing Beatrice in _Much Ado About Nothing_ at the RSC. The Royal Shakespeare Company. It’s thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. They’ll be going into rehearsals a few days after the New Year, and she is itching to start.

“I don’t know, Mother. It just hasn’t happened, I’m afraid.”

In fact, Bernie’s delighted, although she never dares to say so whenever anyone commiserates with her and Marcus on their childless state. Marcus, of course, continues to insist on sexual intercourse whenever they’re together, and he’s become increasingly aggressive during the sexual act – sometimes Bernie has to hide bruises, particularly on her arms, from where he’s pinned her down in order to use her body ‘as a wife should want it to be used’.

“Perhaps we should make you an appointment with a Harley Street specialist,” her mother suggests. 

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Bernie says, but only half-heartedly because she doesn’t really want to endure a half hour lecture on her duty to carry on the Wolfe name (a peculiar notion given that it’s traditional for sons to do that and given that her older brother has already produced two sons). 

“I’ll give them a ring after Christmas,” her mother says firmly and Bernie smiles weakly, then turns away to go upstairs in order to change for dinner. She has no idea why her parents insist on dressing up for dinner – it’s not as if they’re aristocrats, but it’s what they’ve always done.

The room she’s sharing with Marcus is empty, to her relief, so she quickly slips off her jeans, shirt, and sweater, and goes to the wardrobe for her dress. She hates wearing dresses, even when she’s performing on stage, although she can make it bearable when she’s acting by focusing on her lines and not her clothes. It’s harder to do that off stage when she doesn’t have any lines.

She’s just pulling a brush through her hair – which remains as unruly as ever – when Marcus appears, and she feels her body stiffen at the sight of him. He doesn’t speak, however, just begins stripping off his clothes so that he, too, can change for dinner. Bernie practically bolts before he is halfway undressed, just in case he gets any ideas. She hasn’t forgotten the way he bent her over the foot of the bed, flipped up the bottom of her wedding dress, then pushed aside her panties and pounded into her as soon as they got to their hotel room on the night of their wedding. It was the first time she’d ever had sex and it had hurt so much that she’d sobbed into the bedding as he drove relentlessly into her. She’d been sore for days afterwards and had bled intermittently for a couple of hours after he’d finished. 

Once she reaches the bottom of the stairs she straightens her spine, takes a few deep breaths in through her nose, exhaling through her mouth after a few seconds, then fixes a stage smile on her face before walking down the hall into the dining room. 

_You can do this_ , she tells herself. Something she seems to tell herself more and more often whenever she’s forced to spend time with Marcus.

**Ten years later.**

Bernie’s career has skyrocketed, and she is now a household name. It’s a little disconcerting, given that she’s actually such a private person when she’s not acting, but she supposes she’s getting used to it now. She still acts on stage, but increasingly she’s in demand by television producers and even film directors. Sometimes it seems a little surreal, the way her career has flourished, but since she loves to act, she cannot really say that she minds. The only regret she does have is that she hasn’t seen Serena Campbell for most of the last decade as she’s been so busy, and her regret had intensified when she’d learned that Serena had divorced her husband Edward because he was an adulterer and an alcoholic. She knows from the letters and telephone calls that they’ve exchanged that Serena’s found it hard, at times, bringing up her daughter Elinor alone, and she’s wished she could help, but aside from offering Serena money, which she knows the other woman wouldn’t accept, she cannot do more than try to maintain their friendship via letters and the occasional telephone call. 

As she sits in the chair having her hair and make up done for tonight’s appearance on a chat show, Bernie finds herself indulging in the memory of the last time she’d seen Serena, nine years ago now, at her New Year’s Eve party. Serena’s large, leafy detached house in a very pleasant suburb of Holby had been packed to the rafters and Bernie had felt quite tired by the time midnight rolled around, particularly as she’d been ‘on’ all evening, talking to total strangers who largely seemed unable to distinguish between her characters and herself. She blamed it on the fact that she’d starred in two immensely popular TV shows, both of which had run to multiple series. The first show had been an historical drama in which she’d played a woman doctor at a time when women doctors were not very commonplace. The second show, which she’d begun filming while the final series of the historical drama was beginning to air, had been a contemporary police drama in which she’d played a Detective Inspector. Oddly, the police drama had been a spin-off from a TV show about forensic pathologists. She’d played a guest starring role, as the Detective Inspector, in a two-episode story for the forensic pathology show, and the character had proved so popular with the public that the producers had asked her if she’d be interested in playing the DI in a spin-off show. Since she’d enjoyed the role very much, she’d happily agreed, and the show had run for twenty six episodes in total.

At the end of Serena’s New Year’s Eve party, she’d helped her friend to clean up the worst of the mess, then said she’d better find a taxi to take her to the station, but Serena had pointed out that it would make more sense for her to get a few hours sleep in her guest room, then get a taxi in the morning to get a train to London. Since Bernie was so tired, she hadn’t bothered to argue, she’d simply murmured her thanks and followed her friend upstairs. Serena had definitely been on the wrong side of tipsy and she’d barged into the guest room with a spare new toothbrush and some towels without knocking, catching Bernie in only her underwear as she’d just removed her dress. She’d flushed as much with desire as embarrassment, but Serena had been unfazed by her state of partial undress.

“I forgot to ask,” Serena said, “who did you end up kissing at midnight?”

Bernie flinched. “No one. By choice.”

“Aw, that’s so sad.”

Serena came into the room and laid the towels down on the bed, setting the toothbrush, still in its packaging, on top, then she clasped Bernie’s shoulders. 

“Were you afraid Marcus would find out? Or that someone would get the wrong idea?”

“The second, more than the first,” Bernie had admitted. She’d wanted to kiss Serena but knew she couldn’t.

“C’mere then.”

Those two words were all the warning Bernie had before Serena planted her soft, warm, and very supple lips on her own and kissed her with all the enthusiasm of a woman who’d drunk at least a couple of bottles of Shiraz during the course of the evening. Bernie had fought very hard not to moan in pleasure and fought even harder not to drag Serena down onto the bed to ravish her. 

The next morning over a breakfast of strong, hot coffee, buttery, flaky croissants, and bowls of fruit drizzled with Greek yoghurt, it had become very apparent to Bernie that Serena had absolutely no recollection of kissing her half senseless just a few hours before. That had been rather mortifying, if not wholly unexpected, and Bernie had resolved never to mention it again. She tries very hard not to even think about it, and mostly she succeeds, so she’s not sure why that party and that kiss are on her mind so much this evening. 

(That’s a lie. She knows why. During the rehearsal this afternoon for the interview she’s doing, the host had shown a clip of a home recording of the first time she and Serena had acted together as children, so her friend, the woman she has loved since they were ten years old, is very much on her mind today. A quarter of a century of unrequited love for her best friend – how pathetic is she?)

The chat show interview goes very well, and the other guests are very complimentary about both of her TV shows and about the films she’s starred in as well. By the time she manages to escape the recording studio she’s almost too tired to think straight, and she climbs into the car the TV company organised for her and tries not to immediately fall asleep. She’ll be glad when her new film is released, and she’ll be able to step off the media circus merry-go-round that is currently a large part of her life.

She and Marcus don’t see much of each other anymore – she’s rarely at what is still their family home, at least in name. She’s wondered more than once whether to ask him for a divorce, but she’s been too scared, worried it would negatively affect her career.

His career has done fairly well, although he’s not as big a name as Bernie, not least because directors generally aren’t as well known as actors. On the odd occasions when they do spend time together (family Christmases are still de rigueur), he’s demonstrated his resentment that she’s better known than she is, and she’s carried the bruises for days afterwards.

Bernie manage not to stumble and fall flat on her face as she climbs out of the car, and heads for the lift up to her flat with a sense of relief that this day is almost over. 

She briefly contemplates taking a shower before deciding she risks falling asleep in there, and instead she concentrates on stripping out of her clothes, just managing to hang up her tailored suit before tossing her shirt and underwear into the clothes hamper. She tugs on a pair of boxer briefs, a faded t-shirt, and a pair of fleecy jogging trousers, then crawls into the bed and tugs the duvet over her. As she sinks down onto the amazingly comfortable mattress she is certain that she’ll dream about Serena tonight. She finds herself welcoming the prospect.

**Three years later.**

It's 3am by the time Bernie finally makes it to Serena's home and after driving through the night in heavy rain and a driving wind she's exhausted. But she doesn't get out of the car immediately because she needs a little while longer to unclench her fingers which have been holding the steering wheel in a near death grip. And her back has just started to threaten to spasm, just to add to her physical woes. Although they're as nothing compared to the mental and emotional anguish she's suffering right now. 

Before she can completely fall apart the driver's door opens and the familiar warmth of Serena's presence washes over Bernie. 

“Come on, love, let's get you into the house and get you warmed up.”

Serena carefully unclenches her fingers and briskly rubs Bernie's hands between her own. “Can you move?” she asks with a tenderness in her tone which is both wholly new and somehow deeply familiar. 

“I – I th-think so,” Bernie responds, her voice husky from disuse. 

“Okay. Bags, cases, boxes?”

Bernie manages a weak chuckle at this. “Kitbag and a box of books in the boot.” 

“Okay,” Serena repeats. “Get yourself indoors and I'll bring them in.”

“Th-thank you, Serena.” 

Serena nods, then moves to the boot and Bernie releases the lock, then eases herself slowly from the driver's seat, and walks stiffly indoors. Serena is close behind and she puts the box of books on the hall table.

“Do you want anything to eat or drink?” she asks. 

Bernie shakes her head. “Just sleep.” 

“Come on, then, let's get you upstairs to bed.” Serena gestures for Bernie to precede her and when she tries to reach for her kitbag, Serena brushes her away. 

“I've got it.”

Bernie's far too tired to argue, so she just trudges upstairs, her sock-clad feet feeling almost too heavy to lift. 

When she reaches the top of the stairs Bernie, forgetful of her back in her utter exhaustion, starts to turn to ask Serena something and immediately regrets it as her back goes into a violent spasm. She lets out a short, sharp cry of agony, and clutches tightly at the banister to stop herself from falling down. 

Serena drops her kitbag and wraps her arm around Bernie. “You need a back rub,” she says. “Come on.” She catches up the fallen kitbag, then guides Bernie into her own bedroom. 

“Right then, soldier, let's get you comfy.” Serena guides her to sit on the side of the bed, then carefully peels off the heavy cable-knit sweater Bernie's wearing, though not without some muffled swearing. Then she unbuttons her thick red plaid shirt and eases that off, leaving Bernie in just a thin vest top. 

“Okay, face down on the bed,” Serena says in a no-nonsense tone, “while I wash my hands and find the massage oil.”

Bernie mutters a 'Yes ma'am' that she's sure would earn her a swat to the arm if Serena wasn't so worried about her back, then gets to her feet. She manages to unbutton and unzip her black skinny jeans, only to discover that sliding them down her legs with a dodgy back is less easy, and for once in her life she regrets her choice of jeans. 

“Oh, what are you like?” asks Serena in a slightly disbelieving tone when she returns from the bathroom and discovers Bernie's predicament. 

“Wanted to be comfortable,” Bernie mutters. 

Serena tuts, but kneels down and tugs her jeans the rest of the way off, and Bernie might be in absolute agony, but her libido is perfectly fine, thank you, and the image of Serena Campbell on her knees at Bernie's feet is intensely arousing. She just hopes that Serena takes her flush of desire for one of embarrassment. 

She lies on the bed and screws her eyes closed against the pain and discomfort that she knows is going to ensue as a result of Serena's ministrations; there's a brief rustling to her left, then the bed dips as Serena climbs onto it.

“I'm going to straddle your legs so I can work on your back.” 

“It's fine,” Bernie says, her voice somewhat muffled by the pillow. She does her best not to try to picture Serena Campbell straddling her thighs. It's not easy because it's a very sexy image, but at least thinking about this – or not thinking about it – is a distraction from thinking about how she's ended up arriving at Serena's leafy detached in Holby at 3am.

**Several hours earlier.**

“I want a divorce,” Bernie tells Marcus. “Our marriage has never really worked, and we’ve spent no more than six nights together in the last three years.”

“Our marriage has never worked because you didn’t bother trying to make it work,” Marcus says angrily, glaring at her.

Bernie swallows. This is going to be the hardest part. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t try because I – I’m not interested in men, Marcus. I’m a lesbian.”

“You’re what?” 

Bernie had thought she’d seen Marcus angry before, but now he quickly descends into a towering rage. Stamping, shouting, and swearing violently ensue and she stands stoically by the door to his study. It’s when he starts throwing things that she knows she has to leave, and she feels deeply grateful that she’s already packed the last of her books into a box, which is now residing in the boot of her car – a sporty Mazda convertible similar to one that she absolutely fell in love with two years ago when driving it for a TV role. There’s also a kitbag containing her clothes and essentials in the boot as she’s going away for a long weekend in a couple of hours. She just has a TV interview to do, then she’ll be on her way.

She leaves her set of keys for their house on the hall table, then hurries out and into her car. She hadn’t exactly expected Marcus to take the news well, but this level of violence and anger is wholly unexpected, and quite frankly, frightening. She pulls away from the house and as soon as she has to pause at a red light about half a mile away she hits the speed dial button to call her solicitor, Fleur Fanshawe.

“Hello Fleur,” she says, then struggles to say anything else.

“Bernie? Where are you?”

“In the car. On my way to the BBC. For that interview,” Bernie manages.

“I take it he took it badly?” Fleur asks shrewdly.

“Violently,” she says, aware that she’s shaking slightly.

Fleur curses, briefly and succinctly, then asks, “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No. No,” Bernie says quickly, trying to sound reassuring. “Turns out he’s a rubbish shot unless he’s got a golf club in his hands.”

Fleur sighs. “Okay. Well, just remember what we discussed. No more contact until we get to court with this.”

“Trust me, Fleur, I have absolutely no desire to have or intention of having the slightest bit of contact with my ex ever again.”

Fleur chuckles, the sound low, warm, and very sexy despite being filtered by the speaker on Bernie’s phone. “And are you sure I can’t put you up for a few days?” she asks, her tone inviting.

“You’re incorrigible,” Bernie tells her. “I’m pretty sure it’d be unethical for the solicitor who’s helping me to divorce my husband to share her bed with me.”

“Spoilsport,” Fleur teases. “You know, one of these days I am going to work out who the woman was who stole your heart before I had the chance to do so.”

“You can try,” Bernie says, feeling lighter, and also feeling grateful to Fleur for distracting her thoughts from Marcus. “I have to go. I need to concentrate on getting to the studio without getting killed by my fellow Londoners.”

“Alright, Bernie. Take care and let me know if you need anything – up to and including my body.”

“Ridiculous woman.” Bernie’s smiling, though, as she ends the call, and she suspects that was probably Fleur’s intention – to distract her from thoughts of Marcus and to make her smile.

She arrives at BBC Broadcasting House and is quickly swept up in greetings from the host and offers of tea or coffee and snacks from the crew. There are times when being treated like minor royalty are annoying, but today she welcomes the distraction. Anything to stop her from thinking about Marcus. 

Finally, she’s introduced to the cheers and whistles of the waiting audience, and she settles into her seat on the long couch, facing her host. Alex, her co-star in the one-off two part drama that’s about to air in a couple of days, is absent unfortunately as filming on her current project has overrun. Instead, Bernie’s sharing the couch with Dominic Copeland. Dom plays a young gay man in the drama who helps the police – Bernie’s and Alex’s characters – unravel the murder of his character’s boyfriend. 

The three of them are discussing the fact that the show features two queer couples – the two police office leads and Dom’s character and his boyfriend – when Dom drops the bombshell that’s going to change Bernie’s life.

“Of course, what’s really funny,” Dom says, “is that all four lead actors on the show are gay. Bernie and Alex are both lesbians, and me and Lofty are gay. Bernie and Alex spent a lot of time practising their kissing scenes off camera.” He giggles as he says the words.

At his words there’s a collective sharp inhale from the audience, and Bernie feels herself blushing furiously. The interviewer takes one look at her face and asks, “I take it that Dominic has, to all intents and purposes, just outed you?”

“Yes,” Bernie says tightly. 

“And are you having an affair with your co-star, Alex Dawson?”

“No,” Bernie says. “I am not. Dom saw us rehearsing, nothing more.”

“And does your husband, the director Marcus Dunn, know that you’re a lesbian?”

“He does. I’ve already asked him for a divorce.”

The only thing Bernie can be grateful for is the fact that the interview was almost over by the time Dom opened his mouth and outed her in front of the nation.

He’s hugely apologetic as she walks off the set and she finds it hard to be anything but curt with him in response. Her mobile phone, which she’d left with an assistant off-stage, starts ringing as she’s making her way down the corridor towards the outside world. 

She glances at the screen, and sees a number she doesn’t know, but she answers it anyway – foolishly, it turns out, as the caller is a reporter with whom she’d previously been on friendly terms. After repeating ‘No comment’ several times in increasingly heated tones, she cuts the call. Immediately her phone rings again – this time it’s Fleur, checking that she’s okay. She assures her that she is and is about to switch her phone to silent when it rings a third time – and her heart almost seizes up when she sees Serena’s name flash up on the screen.

“Are you alright?” Serena asks as soon as Bernie answers.

“Not – not really,” she says. “I, uh, I’m sorry I never told you.”

Serena’s chuckle is as warm as it is unexpected. “Oh love, I’ve known you weren’t straight since we were in that radio serial when we were both fifteen.”

“I’ve been in love with you since we were ten,” Bernie says, then regrets it immediately. 

“Have you now?” The warmth is still there in Serena’s voice. But there’s speculation there, too, Bernie notices. “What are your immediate plans?”

The change of topic confuses her, but she answers anyway. “I’ve got a long weekend off booked.” 

“Going somewhere nice?” 

“I planned to go to Wales to stay in that cottage I inherited from my great aunt.”

“Would you like to come and stay with me instead?” 

“Are you – are you sure?”

“Wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”

“Th-thank you.”

“No worries. Drive safely.”

“I will,” Bernie reassures her, then switches her phone to silent and climbs into her car. By the time she’s pulling out of the car park there’s already a mob of reporters and paparazzi outside the front of Broadcasting House, and Bernie can only feel grateful that the entrance to the car park is some distance down the street from the entrance to the building.

Bernie’s an hour out of London when the rain starts and realising that she’s hungry and starting to flag a bit, she pulls into a motorway services. Recalling that it’s probable she’ll be recognised if she goes in as she is, she feels grateful to her earlier self for chucking her long Burberry raincoat and an old Stetson hat onto the passenger seat before she left Marcus’. She pulls on the coat as best she can within the confines of her car, grabs the hat and, exiting the car, claps it on her head, tugging it down low over her forehead. She rapidly buttons up her coat, then checks she has her wallet and phone before locking the car and heading quickly over to building where the restaurants and shops are located. She grabs two coffees, one in a go cup and the other in a regular cup, and a sandwich to eat now, plus a couple of pastries, one of which she’ll keep for the journey.

The young man on the till shows absolutely no sign of recognising Bernie, to her considerable relief, and she takes her refreshments over to a table near the door so that she can bolt through it if necessary. Fortunately, she manages to finish her impromptu meal before any other customers enter the café, so she is able to walk out at a reasonable pace, coffee and pastry in hand. She realises the paper bag that the pastry is in won’t survive the increasingly heavy downpour, so tucks it into the pocket of her coat, then hurries over to her car. She remembers to pull out the pastry before she gets into the car and she puts it inside her upturned hat on the passenger seat after putting the go cup of coffee into the cupholder on the dashboard. 

She checks her phone and sees a number of text messages and missed call notifications. She ignores the majority of them both, only responding to Serena’s text with a quick note: _At the services for coffee and food. On my way again soon._ She then calls Fleur back.

“Where are you?” asks her solicitor.

“In the car, on the way to stay with a friend. Why?” Fleur sounds unusually harried, Bernie thinks.

“I’ve had Marcus’ solicitor on the line, threatening to do you out of every penny because of, and I quote ‘a string of lesbian affairs’ with your leading ladies.”

“What?” Bernie asks, incensed. “He can’t.”

“No, he can’t,” Fleur agrees. “Your earnings are your own and, according to you, in a separate account, not a joint account.”

“Yes. Marcus set up the joint account and it was there to pay for the mortgage and also for things for the house, oh and for groceries, too. But I haven’t paid a penny into the joint account for years. I haven’t even lived in what’s technically our marriage home for years, and on the only occasions that we’ve been together in the last few years, we’ve slept in guest rooms at either my parents’ or his parents’ houses.”

“Sorry to have to ask this but when was the last time you had marital relations?”

Bernie flushes and is glad Fleur cannot see her. “The Christmas before last. So, nearly two years ago now. I wasn’t in the country last Christmas because I was in America filming that movie about werewolves and witches.” Which had turned out to be something of a box office flop, though her own part in it had been critically acclaimed.

“Okay. Good. Listen, Bernie, don’t worry about the divorce, okay? You have strong grounds for your petition. I’ll handle his solicitor. If I need to speak to you, I’ll send you a text.”

“Thank you, Fleur. I appreciate this.”

“No worries. Drive safely, okay?”

“Will do.”

By the time Bernie’s finished her call with Fleur she’s had another text from Serena: _Drive safely. It’s getting up quite a storm here. x_

Bernie blinks a bit at the x on the end of the message, but shakes her head, dismissing it and texts back: _Same here. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. I don’t need the publicity that’d come with an RTA!_

Bernie then notices that one of the missed calls is from her agent – she’d overlooked that, so she calls him. 

“Hanssen.”

“Hello Henrik,” she says, and she smiles at the sound of him setting down his teacup. He’s a laconic, occasionally enigmatic, Swede who’s been in England for about twenty years and has been her agent for almost as long after the sudden, premature death of her previous agent from breast cancer.

“Berenice.” She winces. Henrik’s practically the only person who ever consistently calls her Berenice and it’s always a bit of a shock when he does. “How are you bearing up?”

She snorts. “I basically ran away,” she says.

“And where are you now?” 

She can hear the concern in his voice and hastens to reassure him. “On my way to Holby to stay with my oldest friend.”

“Ah, yes. Ms Campbell.”

She smiles. “Serena, yes. As you know, I was planning to go and stay in my cottage in Wales for the next few days, but Serena invited me to stay with her, and I decided that, on the whole, it would probably be better to be with a friend than on my own.”

“I think that was a wise decision on your part,” he says in his usual steady, measured tone. “Berenice, things are going to be a little tricky for a while, but we will get through this. And rest assured that anyone who tries to drop you from their project as a consequence of you being outed by young Mister Copeland will be given short shrift and will be reported to the relevant authorities for homophobia.”

“Thank you, Henrik. I appreciate the support and your concern.”

“You are welcome. It may interest you to know, Berenice, that I’ve already had a handful of enquiries as to your availability for projects where the directors and producers are specifically wanting an actor to play an older lesbian character. So you must not fear that your career has just been dealt its death blow.”

Bernie can’t help chuckling at his phrasing. “I’m relieved to hear it,” she tells him. “Thanks for letting me know. If you send me the details of the projects, I’ll have a look at them at some point over the weekend and let you know which, if any, are of interest to me.”

“Of course. Though, I will mention that one of them was for a recurring character in a certain family friendly science fiction show for which I know you have a penchant.”

“Good god, you don’t mean _Doctor Who_ , do you?” she asks in disbelief.

“I do, indeed.”

“Wow! I’d begun to give up hope of ever getting a part in _Who_. Well, I am extremely interested in that role.”

“You should still take the time to read over the details they’ve sent to me,” Henrik says.

Bernie laughs a little more freely. “Of course I will, Henrik. Of course I will.”

“Good. I’ll wait to hear from you in due course. In the meanwhile, if there’s anything I can do to assist you, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“I will. Thanks again.”

“Goodnight Berenice. Drive safely.”

“I will,” Bernie says. As soon as she ends the call she cannot resist ringing Serena to let her know the news.

“Guess what?” she says, somewhat peremptorily. 

“I have no idea,” Serena says. “And good evening to you, too.”

Bernie chuckles. “Sorry, sorry. Good evening, Serena. I’ve just got off the phone with Hanssen. Guess what I’ve been offered a role in?”

“Given how excited you sound, I’m going to hazard a guess that it’s _Doctor Who_. I can’t think of anything else that would warrant how thrilled you sound.”

“You’re right,” Bernie says. “ _Doctor Who_! Finally!” She sobers. “Who knew that all it needed was to get outed on national television. If I’d realised that was what was necessary to land a role on the show, I’d have outed myself years ago.”

Serena huffs a laugh. “Well, I am glad to know that something good has come out of that young man’s actions.”

“Actually, Hanssen told me that he’s had enquiries about me for a handful of roles for older lesbian characters played by an actual lesbian actor.”

“Well, that is good news,” Serena says warmly.

“Yeah. Unfortunately, there’s also some less good news.”

“Go on.”

“Fleur, the solicitor who’s handling my divorce, said she’d heard from Marcus’ solicitor and apparently he’s trying to do me out of all my earnings, claiming I’ve had a – to quote – ‘string of lesbian affairs’ with my leading ladies.”

“And have you?” Serena’s tone is mild, but curious.

Bernie snorts. “I haven’t had even _one_ lesbian affair, never mind a string of them. I have never dared to make a move on anyone because I’ve assumed it’d ruin my career if I was out. Besides,” Bernie adds in a lower tone. “There’s only one woman who’s ever really interested me.”

“I seem to recall that you mentioned earlier that you’ve been in love with me since we were ten.”

“I’m sorry, Serena. I shouldn’t have said anything. It was unfair of me. I–”

“Just stop right there, Berenice Wolfe,” Serena says, her tone stern. “I am very glad that you told me.”

“You – you are?”

“Of course I am. Love, have you forgotten that New Year’s Eve party where I kissed you?”

“Never,” breathes Bernie. “But I thought you’d forgotten that you’d kissed me. You never mentioned it the next morning.”

“Neither did you,” Serena points out.

“Well, no. I just thought you’d been so–”

“Pissed?” There’s humour and warmth in Serena’s voice as she suggests this.

Bernie chuckles. “Well, yeah. I mean, how was I to know it was okay to ask my straight best friend if she remembered kissing me nearly senseless.”

Serena laughs softly. “God, you are so repressed. Love, I’ve been flirting with you for years. I thought that was a big enough hint. I just assumed, because you never said anything, that you didn’t fancy me.” 

“I did! I do!” Bernie sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We’re a right pair, aren’t we?”

“That we are. Look, let’s table this conversation until tomorrow. Now, are you still driving up to mine tonight, or do you want to wait until the morning in the hope that the worst of this storm will’ve blown over?”

“I’d rather come tonight if you don’t mind? But don’t feel you have to wait up for me.”

“Tell you what, text me when you’re a couple of miles away, and I’ll get back up. Don’t worry, my text alert sound is quite noisy, so I won’t leave you sitting outside in the cold and wet.”

“Thank you, Serena. I really appreciate this.”

“What’re friends for?” Serena asks, her tone light.

“Yeah. I’ll try to get to you in good time.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just make sure you arrive safely. That’s the most important thing.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good girl. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Yeah.” Bernie hesitates over how to end the conversation for the first time in their decades long friendship.

“Get going, you ridiculous woman,” Serena says, and Bernie laughs.

“Okay. On my way.” She ends the call, puts her phone into the handsfree holder, plugging it in to charge, then starts the engine and pulls out of her parking space. There’s an unexpected warmth in her chest that makes her smile like a giddy teenager. Although she doesn’t remember ever being a giddy teenager.

With any luck, she’ll be with Serena in an hour. (She isn’t so lucky, unfortunately – a bad crash on the motorway had left her stuck in traffic for over an hour, and then she’d spent nearly two hours on a lengthy detour to avoid the scene of a multiple pile-up.) 

**Now.**

“Are you asleep?” Serena asks in a soft voice.

“Not quite,” Bernie mumbles, then shifts so that the pillow’s no longer muffling her voice. “Close, though.”

“How’s the back?”

“Much better, thank you.”

“Good. Let’s get you something to wear.”

“My sleepwear’s in the top of my kitbag,” Bernie tells her.

Serena huffs a laugh. “Of course it is. You are such a soldier, sometimes.”

“Can’t help my upbringing,” Bernie says.

Serena unfastens her kitbag and pulls out a t-shirt, a pair of grey boxer briefs, and a pair of grey fleece lined jogging trousers, and brings them to the bed, along with her toiletries bag. 

“Let me wash my hands,” she says, “then the ensuite’s all yours. Unless – well, would you prefer to sleep in the guest room?”

Bernie sits up. “Not unless you want me to. I’m afraid that I don’t feel up to anything besides sleeping–”

“Berenice Wolfe, you silly goose, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not expecting to do anything more than sleep in the same bed as you. Apart from anything else, I don’t want you to risk putting out your back again.”

Bernie gives her a sheepish look. “Sorry. I – uh – sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Serena says. She leans down and presses her lips to Bernie’s forehead, then goes into the ensuite, and she hears Serena washing her hands as she pulls off her vest, which Serena had pushed out of the way while massaging her back with the oil, then she ditches her bra too, before sliding her panties off. 

She’s just reaching for the boxer briefs when Serena comes back out of the bathroom and stops dead just outside the door. Bernie freezes, too, flushing at the frankly appreciative manner in which Serena is gazing at her naked body.

“Always knew you were bloody gorgeous,” she murmurs, then comes to the side of the bed. “Get your clothes on, solider, and then get into bed before you fall down from lack of sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bernie hastily re-dresses herself, then moves into the ensuite to make use of the facilities, have a quick wash, then clean her teeth.

When she returns Serena’s turned off the main light, leaving just the two lights on the nightstands on either side of the bed switched on. The woman herself is lying on her side, facing the bathroom and she smiles as Bernie crosses to the bed and slides under the covers next to her. They turn out the lights almost simultaneously.

“C’mere, you,” Serena says and holds out an arm. Bernie happily slides into the middle of the bed to meet her and wraps her own arms around her best friend, entangling their legs together.

“Are you going to be warm enough in that t-shirt?” Serena asks solicitously.

“I usually am,” Bernie assures her.

“Okay.” Serena presses their foreheads together and their breaths mingle as they unconsciously synchronise their breathing together.

“Can I – Would it be okay if I kissed you?” Bernie asks after a few moments. “Just a kiss goodnight.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” Serena murmurs, making Bernie chuckle, then she smiles against Serena’s lips as she brings their mouths together once, then twice, then a third time before she eases back to rest her forehead against Serena’s again.

“Goodnight, Serena Wendy Campbell.”

“Goodnight, Berenice Griselda Wolfe.”

**Three months later.**

“I can’t believe I’m going to Cardiff tomorrow,” Bernie murmurs against Serena’s shoulder as they gather themselves again after a very vigorous love making session.

Her lover chuckles. “You’ve been saying that all day, on and off.”

“I guess so. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I know how big a deal it is for you. It’s a pretty big deal for me that my lover is going to be in _Doctor Who_. And Kate Lethbridge-Stewart sounds like a real badass.”

“Mmm. UNIT’s Chief Scientific Officer. Mother of two adopted, grown up children. Divorcee – that bit’s a bit sad, although not surprising given her backstory. Keen gardener and bridge player.”

“And don’t forget daughter of a beloved Classic Who era character,” Serena says. “That practically guarantees you’ll be instantly beloved in your own right.”

“God don’t remind me,” Bernie says. “It’s a lot to live up to, being a legacy character.”

“Darling, you have nothing to worry about. You’ll knock their socks off. The character is a gift.”

“And you’ll come and stay at the weekend?”

Serena kisses her, soft and sweet, making Bernie’s heart swell with love. “Of course I will, you goose. I promised I would.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry, I know I’m being ridiculous.”

“You’re not. It’s understandable that you’re nervous, given this is your first big role as an out lesbian, but honestly, love, you’ll be fine. Great, even.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Bernie murmurs, nuzzling her nose against Serena’s.

“Luckily, you don’t have to do without me,” Serena says. “Now go to sleep. You’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Serena chuckles, then wraps her arms around Bernie, who quickly reciprocates. While she’s very excited about her new role, and especially about finally getting to star in _Doctor Who_ , she’ll freely admit to feeling sad that she won’t get to spend every night in the arms of her gorgeous lover while she’s away. Her bed is going to feel very lonely without one Serena Wendy Campbell in it. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Serena murmurs, making Bernie chuckle. “Go to sleep, you goose.”

“I will.”

“Good. Goodnight, love.”

“Goodnight, Serena.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to anyone who spotted that several of Bernie's TV roles are ones played by Jemma Redgrave (or, in the case of the unnamed _Silent Witness_ spin-off, one I wished she'd do!).


End file.
